A bit after 2 a.m., Soren came running into our room last night, hoping to climb into our bed and sleep between us (because he loves to do that, and does more nights than not). It seems (I say this because we really haven't done the forensics necessary to tell exactly what happened) that he tripped and fell and whacked the bejeezus out of his forehead on the bed frame. A loud "THUMP!" followed by crying and confusion.
Susan pulled him up onto the bed to try and calm him, but after a scant few moments noticed either that there was too much fluid for it to just be tears, or she felt the big gash on his head, and carried him to the kitchen to discover it. Cue application of cold pack, and direct pressure for the bleeding. Baby Motrin for swelling and pain. "Gee that's pretty deep, I think he might need stitches." "Let me see. Yep."
So Soren and I, he now with cleverly dressed wound and I with sandy-and still probably wild-eyes, drove down to the nearby Emergency Room for some stitches and accusing glares (respectively).
Just kidding, nobody thought I'd beaten him. Far as I could tell.
He was a pretty good trooper through it all, though he did not like being wrapped in a sheet and strapped to a child-sized spineboard for restraint. And nobody likes stitches. It took 5, I think, though I wasn't counting that so much as trying to comfort him and hold his gaze. We checked out, drove home, and were sitting in bed by 4. Weirdly, the parking space I vacated at 2:20 a.m. was taken when we got back.
So, how was your night?